


Mistaken Identity

by kaeorin



Category: Loki - Fandom, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: D/s, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3062612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom comes home one night a seemingly changed man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistaken Identity

**Author's Note:**

> This story wound up kind of dark, and with a hint of non-consent. Tom and the reader are in an established, trusting relationship with a sprinkling of D/s, which is why the events of the story don’t immediately freak her out or read (to her) as an assault. If you’re not one for that kind of story or relationship, this might not be the story for you. I don’t want to accidentally trigger anyone or ruin their day, so please proceed with caution, and let me know if there’s a better way for me to word this warning without giving the whole story away.

TITLE:   
CHAPTER NUMBER/ONE SHOT: one-shot  
AUTHOR: grufflepuff  
WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: Actor Tom. Loki.  
GENRE: Smut/Erotica  
FIC SUMMARY: One night, Tom comes home a seemingly changed man.   
RATING: M. Very dirty, please do not read unless you are of legal aaaage.  
AUTHORS NOTES/WARNINGS: This story wound up kind of dark, and with a hint of non-consent. Tom and the reader are in an established, trusting relationship with a sprinkling of D/s, which is why the events of the story don't immediately freak her out or read (to her) as an assault. If you're not one for that kind of story or relationship, this might not be the story for you. I don't want to accidentally trigger anyone or ruin their day, so please proceed with caution, and let me know if there's a better way for me to word this warning without giving the whole story away.

 

“Don't. Move.”

The voice is oddly familiar. The long fingers around your throat are just as familiar, and much less odd. Your pulse quickens with the surprise of feeling him behind you (you are certain he can feel your heart drumming beneath his hand) but your eyes slide closed. You follow his command, falling still and silent under his touch.

“Good girl.” The fingers tighten around your neck, and his free hand creeps down along your body. Your heart is still beating quickly, though now it is with anticipation more than anything else. “So warm. So pliant. I do believe you'll let me take you here and now, won't you? I don't even have to threaten you.”

All you can manage is a soft hum of affirmation. If this is the game he wants to play tonight, you're more than happy to oblige. You just wish he would have given you some sort of forewarning, so you could have put on something a little more alluring than your flannel pajama pants and one of his old t-shirts.

His roaming hand dips beneath your waistband, and you hear him draw in a breath when he realizes how little you're wearing. His fingertips brush gently across your skin, slide lower, between your legs, but do not press for entry. You let your head loll backwards, against his shoulder. He whispers something in that low, menacing voice of his, but you're so focused on the feeling of his skin against yours that you don't notice.

But then his touch disappears, and something cool and silken drapes itself across your eyes. A blindfold. You try to hide your delight, as well as the sense of loss you feel when he lets go of your throat to tighten the fabric—a tie? a scarf?—around the back of your head. He does it quickly and gracefully, and you have only a moment to note that he doesn't catch any of your hair in the knot before he forces you to your knees.

“May I, sir?” It's always been so hard to say those words sincerely. More than once, you've earned yourself a gentle smack and a firm warning about your cheekiness. There's something about him tonight that makes it easier, though. You lift your chin up as though searching his face, though the silk keeps your eyes firmly closed. He caresses your cheek. You hold back your flinch, but the smack doesn't come.

“Absolutely, pet. Such pretty manners.” You hear a soft rubbing, leather on leather, and then the sounds of a fly coming undone. He presses one hand against the back of your head, drawing you closer. The smell of him is intoxicating: leather and some strange new perfume, but beneath that, the always-familiar smell of him. The tip rests against your lips for just a moment before you slide your tongue out to taste him. 

Above you, you can hear his breath catch ever so slightly, and you can't help but smile to yourself. Blindfolded, bound, gagged, it is always you who has the power. You take him further into your mouth, move your lips and tongue and throat just the way you know he likes it. The perfume is stronger. He smells sweet, smoky. It reminds you of incense, but of course that's ridiculous. Your mind conjures up the image of your beautiful boyfriend standing in only his briefs, one leg propped up on the bathroom counter, wafting incense between his legs, and you snort before you can stop yourself.

He grasps your hair and yanks your head backwards off of his cock. “What amuses you? Tell me, what could such a small mortal girl possibly find amusing about a god?”

Before you can gasp out your apology, he's jerking you to your feet. Your safe word springs to the tip of your tongue—your sensitive scalp has always made hair-pulling one of your hard boundaries—but he releases you and flings you onto the mattress before you can even find your breath. Perhaps that's for the better—he is muttering darkly even as he jerks your pajamas down around your ankles.

“I can make that laughter dry in your throat, pretty girl.” He grips your ankles tightly, spreads you wide open. You're vulnerable, and you can't help squirming. He draws your clit between his teeth and bites, just hard enough to make you yelp. He bites harder, unmoved. Slowly, you bring yourself under control, and as your squirming lessens, so does the force of his teeth. He closes his lips around you, presses the warm flat blade of his tongue against your clit as though to soothe the pain. “Don't move. Don't make a sound.”

He releases your ankles, but his hands keep your thighs spread just as wide for him as he explores you with his mouth. There is familiarity in the warmth, the way his tongue moves, but the careful nips to your clit and labia are new. You do your best to stay still, but each time his teeth sink into your skin, you shudder a little, waiting for him to bite down again. 

You feel a curious shame as you grow wet, but even more than that, you feel free. Your only choice is to bend to his will as he buries his face between your thighs. There is no need for you to feel self-conscious or worry about inconveniencing him. He is all but purring against you. It's hard to understand everything he says, but he sounds pleased with you. There is no room for guilt here. That might be your favorite part of submitting to him. 

His mouth draws away, and you can feel his eyes on you in your darkness. His gaze must be fixed on your face, and when you feel that slow intrusion, you realize why. He slips one long finger inside you, probing, twisting, claiming. You start to arch your hips into him, but remember his command and freeze. He rewards you with a low purr and a second finger. It's still not enough. You have to fight to breathe, but heroically keep yourself from whining or even pleading with him. Finally he slips a third finger in, and curls them up, beckoning you closer to the edge. 

“Exquisite,” you hear him murmur. This is torture. All you want is to arch your hips high off the bed and beg for him to let you come, but you bite your lip instead. Something tells you that tonight he's more likely to stop this entirely than to give in to your pleas. After what seems like an eternity, he speaks again: “Would you like to come, pretty girl?”

“Yes. Please, sir...” You only just manage to keep from whining it at him. He chuckles. The sound is rich. Delicious, even in the haze that clouds your brain.

“Do it, then.” But his touch slows. You're aching for release, but it just isn't going to happen. “Offer me your pleasure. Let me watch you. Let me feel it.” 

You don't realize that you're holding your breath until you realize how badly your chest is burning. Every scrap of your consciousness is focused between your legs, on the slickness and the way his hand is moving within you, and the way your climax seems to flit around the edges of the room. It never gets closer. You growl with frustration, with your own impotence. Before you know what you've done, you lower one hand to touch yourself.

He jerks his hand away immediately. There is a heaviness in your chest, a sob at having been so close, but you know you've made a grave mistake. You move your hand to grip at the sheets, but it's too late. He's moving up the bed, jerking you along with him. The ropes seem to have come out of nowhere, but in an instant, he's got your wrists tied to the headboard. You don't even bother to struggle: you know his proficiency with knotwork. 

“I'm sorry, sir,” you say, in as small a voice as you can manage. “May I make it up to you, sir?” He's threatened, in the past, to tie you to the bed and leave to drink a cup of tea in the next room, but it's always been while you were both fully-clothed, and always as a joke. Something about him tonight, though, makes you think that he just might follow through on that.

“Whatever happened to those pretty manners, girl? Rutting against yourself like a common whore? You forget yourself.” He's kneeling over you, and the feeling of his powerful thighs against your sides does very little to soothe the ache inside you. If you could just look at him...

“I'm sorry,” you repeat. “It was a mistake. I'll do better.”

He caresses your face, and you press your cheek against his hand. “I know you will, pet.” He touches your lips. You open your mouth to him, taste yourself on his fingers. You've seen the way his eyes narrow when you do that; you've watched his pupils dilate. He curls his fingers around your lower teeth and grips your jawbone firmly. It feels like a warning. You fall still beneath him.

He moves, settles himself higher at your neck, and presses his cock against your lips again. When he fists his hand in the hair at the top of your head, you grimace and try to protest, but he's filling your mouth and making it impossible to speak. Your fingers claw uselessly at the headboard. He's fucking your lips fast, relentlessly. He's never this rough with you. Even at his most intense, he is always searching your face for signs of discomfort. But a part of you—a dark, hidden part of you—is relieved. When he is Gentle Tom, constantly checking in and reassuring you that this can all end if you want it to, it's harder to enjoy yourself. Right now, there is no question in your mind about whether he is enjoying himself. You can feel it in the throb of his length and you can taste it in the precum that leaks from the tip. 

He groans and presses your head back among the pillows, but he does it slowly, as though with great difficulty. He traces one finger along the outside of your lips and heaves a sigh. “Your mouth is sweet, pet. You will be my undoing.”

He moves away from you, and off of the bed. You can't help but shiver in the night air. The room is silent. Can you still feel him standing beside the bed? Has he disappeared? Could he possibly be in the next room sipping tea? You strain against the ropes, waiting for him to touch you—touch you anywhere. Just as desperation brings his name to the tip of your tongue, you feel the featherlight touch of his hand stroke down your belly. You gasp, forgetting in your pleasure to be ticklish.

For several long, silent moments, all he does is stroke you, taking the time here and there to weigh one breast in the palm of his hand, once dipping his head to trace a circle around the inside of your navel. You get the sense that he is claiming you. He is mapping your body with his senses, as though he had not already seen you nude hundreds of times. Finally he takes one of your ankles in his hand again, but rather than simply spread you open, he lifts it high above your head, to press it to the headboard. 

You've dabbled a bit in yoga, sure, but there is a tightness, a pull in your muscle that makes you catch your breath. One hand holds you in place, while the other slips down to explore your wetness. “You are enjoying this,” he observes. The tone of his voice makes it clear that he expects no reply, but you hum your agreement anyway.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Your response must have pleased him, because he circles his thumb around your clit a few times—just long enough for you to have to catch yourself to keep from arching your hips again.

“Filthy, mewling little pet.” The words should shame you, but his voice is affectionate. There is a buzzing sound in your ears, and you are almost certain that it comes from your pleasure. You feel him loop another length of rope around your ankle, securing your leg there above your head. It comes as no surprise to you when he lifts your other ankle just as gently, and secures it just as tightly. If you felt exposed before...

His hand dips low again, and two fingers probe just inside your entrance. It's not enough. At this point, could anything be enough? But there is literally nothing you can do at this point except allow him to take his time and do as he pleases. 

The tiniest chill of fear runs through you. Tom has never been this rough or this demanding. The two of you have been playing at a kinky sort of relationship for months now, but this feels different. He hasn't asked you a dozen times if you feel okay. He hasn't checked in even once. He hasn't checked and double-checked the ropes to make sure they're comfortable. But you know this voice of his, and you know the touch of his hand and the smell of his body. And you *are* okay. The ropes are perfect, and though ordinarily you'd be absolutely mortified by being trussed up and exposed like this, you do feel perfectly safe. You take a deep breath to steady yourself.

His fingers plunge deeper then, and steal away all conscious thought.

“You are absolutely dripping,” he observes. His voice sounds far away, but you detect a trace of pleasure. “What if I were to leave you like this for the next person who walks into the room? What would that boy of yours do?”

Even this aspect is not terribly new. You've roleplayed in the past, or tried to, at least. You've always been too self-conscious to act out the part of someone else in front of him. He pretends to be different people for a living. Mostly in the past your attempts have dissolved into giggles, which inevitably leads to his tackling you onto the sofa or the mattress and punishing you with tickles. But with this blindfold, and his dark menacing voice, it's easier to pretend.

“I don't know, sir. I don't know if he'd know where to start.” You offer a smile, just in case your words hurt his feelings. His only response is a thoughtful hum, and his presence seems to disappear again. You relax against the pillows for just a moment. Every muscle in your body feels wound up tight; every nerve jangles. If he doesn't let you come soon, you worry that you might fall apart.

Then you feel him at the end of the bed, creeping up between your legs. There is one last moment of stillness, as though he were positioning himself just so, and then, without preamble or the barest hint of teasing, he is sinking himself as deeply inside you as he can. You can't stop the hiss that escapes your mouth, the desperate curse from the shock of being so suddenly filled. His bony hips press hard against the insides of your thighs. He hovers above you, and his tongue snakes out to trace the shell of your ear.

“What a filthy mouth on you. What other vulgar words do you know, pretty girl?” He moves long and slow and with a single-mindedness that makes it hard for you to breathe. The angle of your hips, along with the way he's spread your legs, gives him perfect access to the depths of your body. Each thrust fills you perfectly and stokes a fire that's been burning for much longer than just this night. But despite your best efforts, despite the way you clench down tightly around him and grasp at the headboard and beg in a voice gone hoarse, his speed does not vary. 

You can feel every inch of him as he burns his way inside you, then slides away again. You want nothing more than to lock your legs around him and hold him in place, but he's safeguarded himself against that. Your legs ache. Your lungs burn. You've long since exhausted your impressive collection of obscenities in English and the few you know in French and Spanish, but his desire remains unsated. The ropes that bind you must be enchanted: with how urgently and painfully you've been struggling against them, they still have yet to come undone.

In the end, you resort to begging. You allow him to reduce you to something base and needy, centered entirely around the slickness between you and your hot, frantic need to unravel beneath him. The pieces of his persona finally click—the leather, the dark velvet of his voice, his exigency and selfishness—and you realize exactly who it is that he is playing tonight.

“Loki,” you gasp out, with what few shreds still remain of your consciousness. “Please let me come. Have mercy on my, my king.”

He falters and stills, but it lasts only for a moment, and your ragged mind barely even notices. “Pretty manners on such a clever pet.” He leans forward again, and delves his tongue between your lips. His thumb once again circles your clit, this time with a firmness that promises completion. When he pulls back, it is only far enough to speak. His lips move against yours, and his breath comes hot and fast. “Come undone, then. Take pleasure from your king's body. It would be my honor.”

This time, climax does not escape you. All of your pleading and struggling tonight has finally led to this moment. You can feel the tightening in your body, the tenseness and trembling that always comes first. You do not have to chase this pleasure. Tom—Loki—is offering it freely, stretched out above you. There is no escaping it. Your fingers clutch painfully at the headboard as it threatens to wash over you, your hips straining towards the man who still has yet to alter his rhythm as he fucks deep into you. When it hits, you are helpless against it. Long-denied pleasure finally wracks through your body, and all you can do is howl. 

He closes his mouth around you and devours your voice hungrily. Even when your body finally goes limp, he continues to kiss you, biting and exploring and claiming you as his. He is pumping harder against you now, and his hips are no longer as precise. You imagine you can feel him throbbing, and then a delicious fullness as he spills himself inside you. 

After several very long moments, during which you relish the sweetness of his breath when he pants against you, he finally reaches up and frees your ankles. Without pulling out of you, he helps you ease your legs back to the mattress. As soon as he releases you, you wrap your legs around him and hold him tight, still deep inside you. He chuckles.

“You are filled with the seed of a monster, pretty girl.”

You laugh as well. If he wanted to keep playing, then you would keep playing too. “The seed of a monster? Or the seed of a prince? It is a burden I will gladly bear, my lord.”

He does not reply. When he moves his hips against you again, you realize that he has not yet gone soft. You wonder dizzily if you could even survive another round. He does not give you much time to think: he thrusts slowly, lazily. You can feel his come dripping out of you. In another situation, you might worry about making a mess, but tonight you've plenty else to concern yourself with.

“What will you have me do when your boy returns home and sees you like this? Shall I disappear?” He is playing with a strand of your hair. How could he possibly be focused on maintaining the role after all *that*? But it seems like such a pity to ruin this moment.

“No, of course not. I'll ask him to join us. He could learn a thing or two from you.” You offer another grin, and move your head forward to kiss whatever part of his skin that you can reach. You find his neck and suck gently. He growls. The sound rumbles through his chest and into yours.

“I've no objections.”

You're about to laugh and ask him to untie your wrists, ruining the moment be damned, when you hear the front door opening and a familiar voice—Tom's voice—calling to you from the living room. Loki chuckles darkly against your ear.


End file.
